


23 Skidoo

by lalejandra



Category: lotrips
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-04
Updated: 2004-03-04
Packaged: 2019-07-14 09:00:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16037207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalejandra/pseuds/lalejandra
Summary: Elijah loves the Flatiron building.





	23 Skidoo

Elijah Wood loves the Flatiron building. He loves it the way most people love chocolate pudding or Jude Law. He could look at it forever, or he could stand in it forever. Once when he was a kid, his mother took him inside and let him ride in the hydraulic elevators. It took twenty minutes to get up to the 20th floor, and it was worth every second.

The history of the Flatiron building is rich and varied and Elijah can repeat it for anyone who asks. This is not just because he's an actor and therefore used to memorizing things, but because he thinks of the Flatiron as an old friend whose history he remembers out of love and respect. Fine, so that's a little weird -- people love weirder things. People love the platypus; he can love the Flatiron.

It sits between everything. Between 22nd and 23rd. Between Broadway and Fifth Avenue. Between East and West. He likes to stand at the front of the triangle, which is exactly between everything, and watch the cars zoon down Broadway and Fifth Avenue, forming a little cocoon around the building. He knows the view is better from inside -- he's seen it. Once.

It was February and it was cold, even though the week before had been warm, and the week after was even warmer. The weather would have been perfect if it was snowing, but it was only windy and mean. He was wearing his brown corduroy jacket that was exactly the color of the outside of the Flatiron, and walking down Madison Avenue. Supper at Tabla didn't fill him at all, and he felt like a jerk the whole time because he really just wanted to be at the Knit or North 6 or the Merc, and not sitting at a table, hobnobbing, eating expensive Indian fusion. It was all South Indian, too, which meant there was too much cheese and not enough potatoes.

He walked through the park, stopped to pet a few dogs, gave a homeless man a cigarette. He used to hand out packs of cigarettes, but the country was, after all, in a recession. No matter how much money he has in his bank account, it's not enough, because he could lose it all at any time, somehow, and then who would take care of his family? That's not fair to them, and he knows it, and he's fine with it. It's why he has Hannah patch his same old jacket. That, and it looks good on him.

And there she was, the Flatiron building. Sean's publisher was in there, on the 12th floor. He'd gone, once, for lunch with Sean, and Sean had signed a bunch of books. Elijah twiddled his thumbs, made eyes at one of the assistants who hadn't even registered his existence, and pulled books randomly off the shelves to scrawl names inside. Not his name, but names of the characters he'd played. He chuckled at a few of them, and was kind of surprised to realize he remembered them all. The elevators weren't hydraulic anymore, and to get in past the foyer he'd had to show a photo ID card and have his picture taken. And they'd made him put out his cigarettes.

Elijah checked his watch. It was just gone on ten pm -- the building would probably be closed. Except -- he squinted -- there were lights on. He'd go in, he decided, and say he was late to meet -- to meet with Sean's editor. And maybe he could get up into one of the offices in the point and look out over his city and feel less like he should be back in Los Angeles with Dominic and Sean and all his friends. He could hang out with all the bands he wanted to, but he wasn't a musician, and it was kind of like trying to hang out with non-actors: it could be done, but it wasn't comfortable.

There was a group of people heading in when he did, and they all greeted the security guard by name, which was interesting. Did Elijah know the name of the security guard at his building? Maybe it was Jose, or Jao, or something. It was weird, like Elijah.

Elijah watched the people -- carrying brown paper bags that looked like they were from the liquor store around the corner -- slide their ID cards over the magnetic stands. He smiled ruefully at the guard. "Sorry -- I forgot mine," he said.

The guard raised an eyebrow at him and smiled. "My daughter loved the new movie," he replied, and motioned for Elijah to go through.

"Are the stairs open?" Elijah asked.

"Sure, through those doors."

Elijah nodded and the security guard nodded back, and then Elijah went through the frosted glass door at the end of the foyer. Up one, up two, up three, and he was on the second floor. He counted again, walked back down and then back up, but that was right. _That_ was something he hadn't known -- maybe there was floor 1 1/2.

He tried a door on every floor until he found one that was open on the fourteenth. This was the lit floor, with people still around. 10:30 on a Friday night and there were people still at work? He walked through the halls. It was another book publisher; not St Martin's Press, though, so no danger of running into Sean's editor. There were books and papers everywhere -- it looked like a tornado had hit.

Elijah didn't waste time poking through the offices, even though he wanted to. Most of them were dark -- the people were on the flat side of the building, not in the point. Everywhere there were knick-knacks and posters. There was a bulletin board filled with mean quotes about writers -- even one from Jules Verne -- and one of the offices had four tanks of Siamese fighting fish.

But Elijah had one goal, and that was to stand at the point and look out over where Broadway crossed Fifth. He didn't even stop at the office with the noises coming from it -- the door was half closed, and he recognized those moans. He fingered his camera phone and stifled a giggle, but passed by the office until finally he was in the very point.

The light was still on, but no one was inside, and the chair was neatly tucked into the desk. It was the only office that didn't look like a five year old sat in it, and it was lined with green couches that looked like they might be futons. Elijah knew about being dedicated to your work -- a year and a half of waking up at 3 am to have prosthetic Feet glued on was about as dedicated as it got -- but somehow sleeping in the office of a book publisher seemed like overkill.

He ran his fingers over the bookshelves. He'd read some of these -- and Ali had read most of them. Sean even had signed first editions of some of these hardcovers.

Elijah took a deep breath before walking to the window. There it was. The cross of streets. He pressed his head against cold glass and looked down. It was disconcerting, to say the least; the cars looked like they were going to drive right into the building, but at the last minute they split to each side. It was amazing.

"Hey, Jon -- you're not Jonny."

Elijah turned from the window to see a girl standing in the doorway, a cider in each hand. She had the longest hair he'd ever seen -- it came down to her knees almost -- and it was thick and black. "No, I'm not," he replied.

"Sorry. I don't think I know you -- but you look familiar." She leaned against the doorjamb and studied him. "Are you in subrights?"

"Not exactly."

"Ah -- an intern, then. Well, I started as an intern, too; there's hope yet, kid. Here." She held out one of the ciders. "Jonny can get his own. Just don't tell anyone I'm corrupting a minor."

Elijah wanted to scoff at her, to tell her that he was probably older than she was, because there was no way she was older than 22. But she looked so damn earnest, and he was, after all, crashing her after hours assignation and liquor drinking. He paused for too long, though, and she misread his hesitation. "If you don't like cider, there's a hidden cache of Scotch."

"There's Scotch?" he asked.

"Of course. This is a publishing company. I personally keep my bottle in my filing cabinet, which is currently locked, but Jim keeps his on his bookshelf behind the hardcovers." She winked, as though keeping alcohol on a bookshelf was terribly naughty -- as though Elijah was really an intern who would be completely scandalized. "Don't they do that down in subrights?"

"Not exactly..." He smiled at her. "I would love some Scotch."

"Come on, then. Just don't tell anyone -- we're not supposed to drink it during parties anymore." She gestured for him to follow her, and with one last glance outside, he did.

"What is this party for anyway?"

"Did they not even tell you? Gah! We're celebrating the fifth anniversary of the death of one of our editors."

"Celebrating?"

"Hey, we laugh or we cry." The girl shrugged; her heavy fall of hair barely moved. Elijah wanted to reach out and touch her skin -- it looked red and rough; she was flushed from drinking. He wanted to know who Jonny was, and why they were meeting in this office when she had her own, and if every publishing company threw parties when its editors died. But instead he just followed her back down the hallway and let her pour him a coffee mug of Abelour's. She finished her cider and then tossed back two fingers of the amber liquor.

"Hey!" A man appeared in the doorway. "I should have known better than to tell you where I'd hid my stash."

"A blind balrog could find your stash, Jim." She poured more Scotch into her own glass, and then some into the cup the new man held out. He was at least six feet tall; Elijah had to tilt his head up. It was like talking to John and it made Elijah homesick. "This is one of the subrights interns. He's been a baby about drinking so far; doesn't he look sober?"

"Well." Jim sipped from his cup, closed his eyes, sipped again. "He _is_ from subrights. They're not alcoholics, you know; they're normal people who leave the office at 5:30, and -- "

"Aw, shut it," the girl replied, laughing. "What say you over there? Are you all alcoholics?"

"Not so far." Elijah took a sip from his own mug. It was surprisingly good. Kind of salty, kind of smoky, kind of -- burn. Oh god. He started coughing, and couldn't stop, and he gratefully gulped the water Jim handed to him. The girl just sat there, laughing and twisting pieces of her hair. The underside, he saw, now that she was sitting and had pulled it over her shoulder, was entirely teal, which clashed horribly with her coloring and her red sweater.

"To alcoholism!" She raised her mug once Elijah had regained his breath. Jim clinked his mug against hers, and then against Elijah's, and they all three drank. Elijah was prepared for the burn this time, for the pressure on his lungs, and he held his breath.

"All righty then," said Jim. "I'm going back inside. Tom's started reciting Frost, and you know what that means."

"Time to get him to sign off on bad books?" The girl's eyes twinkled.

"Do I look like -- "

"Uh-uh," said the girl, waving a finger. "Not in front of the subrights intern!"

Jim took the second bottle of cider the girl had, rapped her on the head with his knuckles, and left grinning. The girl poured herself even more Scotch, and Elijah was impressed. If she'd been drinking like that for even half the night, she was a better drunk than he. She offered him more, but when he shook his head, she tucked the bottle back onto the shelf. "Alas," she said.

"Alack."

"Alaska!" She held up her mug and then drank from it, smacking her lips. "Jim is probably right -- we should go back."

"I think I'm going to leave, actually," said Elijah, finishing his Scotch. He handed the mug back to her, and she twinkled at him again.

"Oh, I never leave parties." She tipped her mug back, then looked inside it mournfully. "I'm always too afraid I'll miss something, so I end up staying until four am with the art director and -- well, and the interns. But you should leave if you really want to. I mean, we just did a liquor run, but we're still almost out, and you can only drink so much Scotch if you want to actually make it into the office tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's a Saturday," said Elijah.

"Well, then, maybe Jonny will show up after all and I'll end up sleeping in Tom's office on one of those horrible futons. Just don't tell anyone, okay, kid?" She spit on her hand and stuck it out, and Elijah raised his eyebrows. She pulled her hand back, wiped it on her pants, and went back to twirling her hair. "Okay, fine, tell anyone you want. It's not like everyone and their mom and the internet doesn't know anyway." She shrugged and his eyebrows went higher. No wonder Astin didn't like the publishing industry -- everyone was fucking crazy. Crazier than Hollywood anyway, and that was saying something.

"I hope you have a good night," he offered. "Get really drunk and have really interesting dreams."

"Yeah, thanks." She looked from her mug up to the bookcase where the Scotch sat. "Go on then, and have a good night. Take some books on your way out -- I know subrights is stingy about that sort of thing."

Elijah nodded, and left his mug on the cluttered desk. On his way out, he picked up a book he knew Dominic would like, and one with a picture on the cover that Ali would love, and one to give to Sean, about dieting. He took the elevator back down, and nodded at the security guard on his way out. He would have to remember to come back with a headshot or something and sign it for that guy's daughter.

When he got outside, he shivered. The Scotch had run right through him and made his whole body feel too warm, but in the icy wind, he wanted more protection than half-digested rice, a thin layer of alcohol, and a yellowish brown corduroy jacket. He walked out onto the triangle of land in front of the Flatiron and looked up at it.

There was a face in one of the windows in the point -- maybe it was that girl. Maybe it was the essence of the Flatiron building, giving him its blessing, and telling him to come back soon. Maybe he'd had too much to drink. Maybe, he mentally amended, he hadn't had enough to drink.

He let the wind whip through him for another moment, then crossed the street to Broadway and kept walking. He craved Los Angeles and the sun and the rain and his family -- he was, very sudden-like, missing Dominic.


End file.
